Ineffable Christmas
by Eileen
Summary: Three one-shots about Aziraphale and Crowley spending Christmas together. Part 3: Christmas Eve, a party, a big announcement, and a surprise for one angel.
1. Part 1

It was three weeks till Christmas, and Soho was bustling with shoppers from morning till midnight. For the first time in three hundred years, A. Z. Fell and Company Booksellers opened on Tuesdays, and the regular weekday hours were extended as well.

Aziraphale was looking forward to a day off. He absolutely refused to open on Sundays, no matter what. Even God Herself had had a day of rest, after all. It was quarter to closing time, and he was just ringing up what he hoped would be his last customer, a middle-aged semi-regular who had bought a first edition of _The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy _for a nephew who liked science fiction.

"Where is your assistant?" she asked, as Aziraphale carefully placed her purchase in a plastic bag.

"I'm sorry, who?" He blinked.

"The young man in the sunglasses who served me last time I was here. Is he off today?"

"Oh. Oh, him. Um, yes. Yes, he is. He'll be back on Monday, though. I'll tell him you were asking for him." He handed her the bag and said, "Have a pleasant evening, and a Merry Christmas if I don't see you, dear."

"Oh, you'll see me, but thank you anyway." She left the shop, the bell over the door jingling. Aziraphale was about to flip the sign over when someone caught the door just before it closed all the way.

"Mr. Fell! Don't close yet!"

He looked down. "Hello, Anita! I can certainly spare a few minutes for my favorite customer. Where's your dad?"

"He's coming." The eight-year-old skipped into the shop and looked around as she always did. "I love this place! I wish I could live here all the time like you do!"

"You know you're welcome anytime you want. Now what was it you wanted today? More _Alice_? I have _Through the Looking Glass _as well, by the same publisher, also illustrated."

She looked around dreamily. "Do you have any more of those Famous Five books I looked at last time?"

"Of course, dear. Right this way. Hello, Robert," he said, greeting the girl's father as he came in the door. "We're just heading over to Children's Literature for a bit. You can browse if you want, or join us, your choice."

"That's all right," the man said. "I'll be over here in Twentieth Century Literature if you need me."

"Don't you have any twenty-**first **century books?" asked Anita.

"Well, not yet, dear," Aziraphale said with a smile. "Give me a few more years. The century's just getting started."

It was technically ten minutes past closing when he rang up both books the two had purchased (the Famous Five book for Anita and a first edition of _1984_ for her father), but Aziraphale didn't mind. It was customers like these two that made it worthwhile. He closed up the till, swept the floor, and flipped the sign on the door by half past nine, and decided to call Crowley to let him know that a customer had asked after him.

The phone rang twice, three times, and on the fourth ring he heard a message asking him to call back later. He waited for the tone and then said, "Crowley, it's me. I don't know where you are, but I'm hoping we can meet for lunch tomorrow. I'll meet you at your place at one. Lots to do. Bye now!"

He waited all night for a call back confirming the lunch date, but none ever came. Crowley must be having one of his marathon sleeps again. He always did in the cold weather. His cold-blooded snake nature didn't do well in the cold, so he slept more than usual between November and March. Ah, well. He should be up and about during the afternoon. Maybe they'd try that new Indian place just off the square. Crowley did like Indian cuisine. He'd spent nearly two hundred years on the subcontinent, after all.

Aziraphale sat in the shop reading while waiting for Crowley to call, and when midnight came and the phone still hadn't rung, he sighed, closed the book, and went upstairs to bed. He didn't really sleep, of course, but he liked to get into his favorite cozy tartan pajamas and read in bed until dawn peeked over the horizon.

Everything would be fine, he just knew it.

* * *

In the morning, he made himself a cup of tea, skimmed the morning paper to make sure that all was right with the world, made a list of things to do for the day (among them: put recycling out, bring charity donations to the local parish, go over his Christmas gift list[1] to make sure he wasn't forgetting anything. He insisted on buying his presents properly to support other local merchants, instead of just miracling them up out of thin air.

Well, all right, maybe a small miracle or two. When the crystal healing shop which had just opened two doors down had been unable to locate a copy of _Common Crystal Energies and their Properties _(Anathema's gift), he'd suggested they look in the back. The clerk had warned him that it wouldn't be there, but she'd been pleasantly surprised, hadn't she? And it wasn't frivolous at all. Aziraphale had even produced a second copy, in case anyone else wanted one.

All his gifts were bought and wrapped already. He would deliver them Christmas Eve, when he dropped in on Adam's family Christmas party. The one for the Shadwells was in the post already, and should get there in plenty of time. He was just waiting for Crowley's to be delivered, and then that was done and he'd have time to enjoy the rest of the season.

At half past ten he scrambled himself an egg and popped some bread in the toaster. This was about the limit of his cooking skills, but at least he didn't burn the eggs anymore. He had a second cup of tea with his breakfast and checked the phone to see if Crowley had finally called back.

He hadn't.

Well, it was still early. Time for a bit of a walk before going to lunch. He put on his coat and hat, as well as a thick knitted scarf, and went out the back, locking up behind him. When he came back, the first thing he did was check the phone. Still no messages.

This was starting to worry him. The angel resolved that if he hadn't heard from his friend by noon, he would hop on the first bus that came by and actually go and visit his flat to find out what was wrong. He hoped Crowley wasn't ill. Normally it wasn't possible for an angel or a demon to get ill, but in the winter Crowley's defenses were all engaged with protecting him from the cold, and as a result he sometimes picked up a bug or two. None of them lasted longer than a few days, more of an inconvenience than a worry, but Aziraphale worried anyway.

At five of twelve he took the initiative, put his coat and scarf on again, and went out to wait for the bus. It was just going past as he got there, which meant he had to wait for the next one. And the buses only came once an hour on Sundays.

He called Crowley to advise him of the delay, and got the machine again. He left a message anyway.

At ten past two he finally stood at Crowley's door. He knocked, and at first there was no answer.

"Crowley? Are you here?"

"It's open, angel. Come on in."

Aziraphale tried the knob and found it unlocked. He stepped inside and found no Crowley to be seen. "Where are you?"

"In here," he called from the direction of the bedroom.

The angel felt a little uneasy invading his best friend's bedroom, but he made his way back there nonetheless. This door was open, and as he looked through he saw the demon huddled in bed under a mound of blankets that nearly reached to the ceiling.

"Are you still in bed at this hour?" he demanded, though the evidence was right before his eyes.

"Too cold out there," came the answer. "Can't get up."

"Are you all right? You're not ill, are you?" He came around to the side of the bed. All he could see was a swatch of red hair poking out the top of the blankets.

"No," Crowley moaned. "Just terribly, terribly cold. Haven't been up since yesterday."

"So you haven't got my messages, then?"

"What messages?" Crowley rolled over and tried to sit up, but all the blankets were in the way. He pushed them aside.

"I've been calling since last night! I was hoping that we could go to lunch today. Although it seems breakfast might be more like it."

"Nope. Not going out. Too cold," the demon repeated, and pulled the covers back over himself.

Aziraphale yanked them down. "Get up this instant, you-you lazy thing! It's two in the afternoon! You've got a coat, haven't you?"

"Dunno. Somewhere here." He waved an arm towards a pile of clothes on the floor.

"Well, get up and find it! We need to go before all the good tables are taken!"

"Don't fret, angel. There's always a table that miraculously becomes free when we arrive. We'll be fine."

"Not if you don't get out of bed and dressed! I'll wait for you out in the, um . . . the other room."

"Fine. Just . . . just give me a few minutes to pull myself together."

"No going back to sleep now! Feet on the floor. Let's see them."

"Angel, I-"

"Get. Up. Now!"

"All right, all right!" Crowley shrugged the covers off and shifted so that his feet were off the edge of the bed. He shivered a bit, but Aziraphale would not back down until the demon's feet were firmly on the floor and his buttocks left the comfort of the soft mattress. "There. See? I'm up."

"Good. Now get dressed. I'll be waiting."

"Yes, yes, all right."

"And no going back to sleep! I mean it!"

"Yes, all right!"

"If I come in there and find you back in that bed, I'll-"

"You won't. Don't worry! Go on and wait. I'll be along."

Reluctantly, Aziraphale left the bedroom and went out into the rest of the flat. There wasn't much. He stopped in and admired Crowley's plants, stroking one especially green leaf.

"He really means well, you know," he murmured. "I know he's hard on you, but look how well you've grown for him! Keep up the good work. He may not show it much, but he really does love you."

"All right, I'm ready."

Crowley stepped out, attired in his usual black ensemble.

"Why do you always wear black?" the angel inquired.

"What's wrong with black? It's stylish."

"It's depressing!"

"It's cool! All the best bad guys wear black. I mean, would Darth Vader be anywhere near as intimidating in pastels?"

"No, I suppose not."

"I'm a demon. Demons are evil. Evil people wear black. End of story."

"Yes, but . . . Darth Vader's last act was to save his son's life. He's not all bad. And neither are you."

"Perhaps."

"Did you find your coat, dear?"

Crowley sighed and snapped his fingers. Suddenly he was wearing a thick black overcoat.

"Hat and gloves, too. It's really quite cold out there."

A black knitted cap and black leather gloves materialized. "Anything else?"

"No, I suppose not. We'd better go before we run into the dinner rush."

The demon rolled his eyes. "Honestly, angel, it's not that late. So I had a bit of a lie-in. So what? Not the end of the world."

"I should hope not. We're not going through that again. Once was bad enough."

* * *

There was a line round the block at the Indian place which even they couldn't miracle away, but they found a nice café on the next corner which was still serving brunch.

"Miracle of miracles," said Aziraphale, who thought Crowley was responsible for this particular miracle.

"Miracles happen every day, don't they?" said Crowley, who was sure that Aziraphale was the guilty party.

"Now, then, dear, on to the business of the day. Have you got your shopping done?"

"What?" he blinked. "No, I haven't started yet."

"You haven't-" the angel sputtered.

"Everyone knows that you get the best deals in the last week! I'm waiting for my moment, that's all."

"You'll forget! You'll lose track of time and then the day will come and you'll have nothing ready!"

"I'll be fine! Don't worry about me!"

"No, I'm not having it. We are going shopping right away. You're going to get this sorted right now and not have it hanging over you for the next three weeks. Then you'll be ready in time and have nothing to worry about."

"But I don't even know what I'm gonna get them!"

"We'll look around. If you see something that catches your eye, pick it up. I mean," he said quickly, spotting the loophole, "pay for it. Properly."

The demon made some sound of protest. "You know I hate to queue! Have ever since the war. All right, fine, let's get this over with. Got things to do today."

"You mean more sleeping."

"Listen, angel, my bed's the warmest place I've got right now! You know I don't do well in the cold."

"So go someplace warm. Nothing keeping you in London."

_There's you, _Crowley didn't dare to say. "Trying to get rid of me, are you?"

"No, of course not! I just thought you might be happier in a warmer climate. Say . . . Australia. Lots of snakes there. You could make new friends."

"Can't stand Australia. They talk funny there."

Aziraphale refrained from rolling his eyes. "Right, let's go, then. The shops are only open till five."

"Depends on which shop. Anyway, I think they might stay open a **little **longer, just for us."

"Don't you dare! Don't you waste a miracle on that! Those poor people deserve to go home on time!"

"All right, whatever."

They both reached for the check at the same time.

"I've got this," said the angel.

"No, I do," said the demon.

"You need to save your money for the presents!"

"No, this is my fault. Do not," he instructed the waiter, "take his card. I'm paying."

In the end, Aziraphale gave in rather than risk a public scene. He'd just pay for their next meal out.

* * *

The invitation sat on Crowley's hall table. It was the first thing he saw when he returned to the flat with his huge bag of purchases, unwrapped as of yet. He'd totally forgotten that he'd been to pick up the mail from his post box-not the one by the door that mostly filled itself with junk mail advertising, but the one at the post office, which he used for the mail he cared about. He put the bag down and slipped the invitation out of its official envelope once more.

"His Honor the U. S. Ambassador to Great Britain Thaddeus J. Dowling, and his wife Harriet, extend their warmest invitation to Ms. A. Crowley to attend a holiday get-together . . ." There was more, but he stopped reading and dropped the invitation back onto the table. "Rubbish! As if I'd spend an evening with that pompous windbag and his old hag of a wife and their important friends! There's only one person I want to see, and I'll see him on my own."

He pulled out his mobile and dialed a number that only a few people knew. He considered himself privileged to be one of them. At first, he worried that the call would go to voice mail. On the third ring, however, it was picked up.

"Hello, Warlock dear," he said, slipping into his softer Nanny voice. "Yes, I just got your parents' invitation. I'm afraid I'm going to be out of town that weekend, but I'd like to see you. No, just you on your own. Is there somewhere we can meet to talk and have some tea and biscuits? Good, good. What? Oh, no, I'm afraid Brother Francis won't be joining us. No, he's on a retreat in the Holy Land. Yes, isn't that nice? Oh, really, you've been there? I'm so sorry you didn't like it, dove. Oh, did he?" Crowley barely suppressed a grin at Warlock's declaration that Hastur "smelled like poo."

"Shall we say . . . Saturday afternoon at three? That should get you home in plenty of time for the party. Good, good. I'll see you then, pet. I love you too, dear. Goodbye now."

He ended the call and dug frantically through his bag of purchases for Warlock's present. Better wrap that now, so he wouldn't forget.

The others could wait. Christmas was still weeks away. Plenty of time for wrapping.

* * *

[1] The list was short: Crowley, Adam, Warlock, Anathema, and Newt. With a little something for Adam's parents, and a nice home gift for the Shadwells, who were living in a little cottage by the sea called Shangri-La.


	2. Part 2

It was two days before Christmas, and Crowley was in a panic. Nothing was done. He'd gotten Warlock's present wrapped and delivered to him, but the rest were just sitting in their bag exactly as they had been the day he bought them. And there was no time to do it now! He'd foolishly promised to help out at the bookshop, and he was late for his shift.

Well, it wasn't as if he was actually **employed **there, was it? Surely he could beg off for a day to get things done, couldn't he? Aziraphale would understand.

Well . . . yes and no. He would say something like "It's all right, dear, I can manage," but that disappointed tone would be in his voice, and Crowley couldn't deal with that.

Tonight, then. When he got home, he'd do it then.

No, he couldn't tonight. There was . . . something he had to do, something he hadn't even told Aziraphale about. He almost didn't dare think about it. It was that secret.

And tomorrow night was Christmas Eve and the big do at the Youngs', so he couldn't do it then, either.

Heaven's Blessings! What was a demon supposed to do?

"What are you doing with that?" Aziraphale demanded as Crowley lugged the big bag of presents into the shop.

"I've got to do this now. Meeting tonight, party tomorrow . . . no other time."

"You've had three weeks! What have you been doing in all that time?"

"Well, you know . . . stuff."

"Sleeping, you mean."

"No! I mean, not all the time! I did . . . other stuff."

The angel tutted. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, Crowley, I told you this would happen! I invited you here to sit and wrap the night we went shopping, but you said no. You said you'd get it done yourself. Well, you haven't, have you?"

"The day is still young."

"Yes, but I'm going to need your help."

"Right. And once it gets busy, I'll come out and give you a hand. Until then, I'll be in the back taking care of these." He dragged the bag behind him, looking for all the world like an infernal Santa Claus, into the shop's tiny back room and shut the door.

He reappeared a moment later.

"You wouldn't happen to have a pair of scissors, would you?"

Aziraphale sighed and produced the requested scissors. Crowley thanked him and retreated to the back, only to return a second time.

"And some tape?"

He handed over the Scotch tape. "I hope you remembered the tags."

"Tags?"

"Gift tags? The 'to' and 'from'?"

Crowley looked stricken.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake . . ." Aziraphale disappeared for a moment and returned with a sheet of red and green stickers. "Now, there isn't anything else, is there?"

"Can't think of anything."

"Right. Well . . . get to it. I've got to go open up. Funny, I didn't think demons did Christmas."

"Not usually, no. Bad time of year for demons. All that happiness and good cheer floating around . . ."

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to say something, but he thought better of it. "Well, go on, then. I'm sure I can handle things by myself for a bit."

"Shouldn't be too busy this early in the morning."

"Right, right."

They headed off in opposite directions, and Aziraphale wondered why he had a sudden feeling of dread. Something nasty was going to happen, but he didn't know what.

There was a tap on the front door. "You opening up or what?" a voice called.

* * *

It was just as he was about to close up shop for lunch that Aziraphale saw the rather strange little man hanging about. He had entered the shop in the wake of four young ladies who browsed around for quite a while but didn't buy anything. When they left, he followed them as far as the door and then doubled back as if he had forgotten something.

The angel watched him closely, sure that something was up. A shoplifter? Possibly. If he was, he was one with discerning taste. Instead of a charity shop or a big bookstore, he was here. Looking for something in particular?

Crowley had come out of the back. The little man spotted him and made a beeline across the shop directly towards him.

With shock and horror, Aziraphale realized that the man was a demon. That was what had been off about him. He went back to his desk, picked up the bottle of sparkling water he had been planning to have with his lunch, and said a discreet blessing over it, turning into a sort of Holy Hand Grenade. He just hoped that the makeshift holy water wouldn't splash over Crowley as well.

But to his surprise, the two seemed to be engaged in pleasant conversation. Was this possible? He hadn't thought that Crowley had any friends left in Hell. Then again, what did an angel know of the affairs of demons?

After a few minutes, they shook hands and the little demon slipped past Aziraphale on his way to the door. He didn't seem to even register the presence of an angel, though he must surely know who it was that owned the shop. The demon left a faint smell of brimstone in his wake. Aziraphale, fanning the air in front of him to dispel the odor, made his way over to Crowley.

"What was that about?" he asked.

"Oh . . . nothing," Crowley evaded.

"Crowley . . ."

"Just an old friend! Catching up on things-"

"Old friend? I thought all the demons hated you now!"

"He's, um, he's been away." Even Crowley could tell that Aziraphale knew he was lying. "Look, it's not important."

"Right." Aziraphale let the matter drop. "Where shall we go for dinner tonight?"

"Oh, I can't make dinner tonight. I've got to go out."

"Go out? Go where?"

"Um . . . nowhere."

"Crowley!"

"I can't tell you, okay? It's, um . . . all right, if you must know, I'm picking up your present. That's why you can't come with me."

"Oh. Oh!" A smile lit the angel's face like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Well, that's all right, then. You can even leave early if you need to. I don't mind."

"Thanks."

Crowley breathed an inward sigh of relief. He'd bought it. He hated having to lie to his angel, but it was necessary in this case. If Aziraphale ever found out where he was **really **going . . . well, it wouldn't be good.

* * *

There was a back door into Hell, though few beings knew about it. It served as an entrance only, lest the damned try to escape. Crowley knew that firsthand; he'd tried to sneak out more than once, but the door stubbornly refused to open from the inside. It looked like an ordinary door, but every time he tried to leave through this door, it somehow sensed his intention and the knob would disappear. It was about the only thing in Hell that worked the way it was supposed to.

It had been great to see Leonard again. The once-great demon had fallen on hard times. Demonic orgies had fallen out of favor since the Sixties, and as a result he was currently doing odd jobs on Earth and picking up the odd bit of information which he used as currency to buy favors.

The information he had given Crowley was worth quite a lot, actually.

_"__Something big is up," he'd said in his initial phone call weeks ago. "There's a big meeting just before Christmas. Mandatory attendance."_

_"__Not for me," Crowley had said. "They don't want anything to do with me anymore."_

_"__You'll want to be there for this. Real big. Possibly even bigger than Armageddon."_

_That had got his attention. "Let me know when it's going down. I'll find a way to be there."_

Crowley used this door to attend the meeting, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible. After his last time here[1], he knew he didn't have any friends left. If they caught him, they'd kill him. Or worse.

Crowley didn't know what could possibly be worse than being slowly dissolved in a bath full of holy water, but if there was something, they would find it, and subject him to it-but only after what seemed an eternity of torture. That was why he absolutely, positively, could not let himself get caught.

He closed the door behind him as quietly as possible (and he had to shove it to get it to close all the way; it was one of those doors that sticks in damp weather, and it was always damp down here) and tried to look inconspicuous as he made his way about.

He needn't have bothered.

They already knew he was there.

* * *

Aziraphale was closing up when he saw lurking motion outside out of the corner of his eye. He moved more quickly than anyone would have thought possible, and in one motion he opened the door, reached out, snagged a familiar figure by the collar, and dragged it inside.

"You!" he exclaimed, face to face with the fiend. "You were hanging about earlier, talking with Crowley. What was that about?"

"N-nothing!" the creature squeaked. "Just talking over old times!"

The angel picked up a bottle of clear liquid from his desk. "You know what this is, don't you?"

"Perrier?" the little demon ventured.

Aziraphale just gave him a look.

"P-p-please! Please don't!"

"Tell me where he's gone, then!"

"I can't! I p-promised-"

Slowly, Aziraphale began unscrewing the cap.

"All right, all right! There's-there's a meeting! An official one! In Hell! Something b-big! He's snuck in to find out what!"

"Oh, good Lord." Aziraphale sat down hard in his chair, making it creak beneath him. "They'll kill him. If they find him, they'll . . ."

He turned to the little demon. "Can you get me in there?"

"Into Hell?"

"He shouldn't be there on his own! If they find him, they'll kill him! I can't let that happen!"

"But-but-you're an angel! You can't enter Hell and get out in one p-piece!"

"I can, if you're with me. I have a plan."

* * *

The little demon's name was Leonard, which amused Aziraphale no end.

"'S not that funny!" Leonard insisted.

"It is, actually. I mean, it's not a very demonic name, is it?"

"L-listen, you, I was great once! I presided over demonic origins the likes of which you have never seen!"

"No, I would say not. I've never been into that sort of thing. So what happened?"

Leonard looked a bit embarrassed. "The Sixties ended. Demonic orgies fell out of favor. D'you want me to let you in, or not?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then s-stop making fun of me!"

"Right. I'm sorry. Please, O Great Demon Leonard, please help me find my friend."

Leonard gave him a look. "Cheeky angel."

The back door to Hell turned out to be in the men's room of a pub on Bleeker Street. Aziraphale didn't really like pubs; they tended to be noisy and reeked of beer. He kept telling himself he was doing this for Crowley. He had to save Crowley.

Leonard went to the back wall and tapped on a loose piece of masonry. The entire wall swung inward, revealing a dark space that smelled of far worse than a little spilled drink. "Stick close to me," he advised the angel. "And s-see if you can d-d-damp down that halo. They'll spot you in an instant with that thing shining."

"Oh. Right." Aziraphale did his best to suppress his inner light so that it wouldn't give him away. "Lead the way, then."

* * *

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" Aziraphale asked after a while. "It feels like we're going round in circles."

"Well, we've g-got to sneak past everyone, don't we? Don't worry, I know where we're going."

Leonard seemed a bit bigger and a lot less hesitant down here. Probably because it was his territory. Aziraphale followed him closely, the thought never once entering his mind that this might be a bad idea. He couldn't leave Crowley down here alone, at the mercy of these . . . fiends. He wasn't quite sure yet how they were going to get **out** of Hell, but that was a bit putting the cart before the horse, wasn't it? First they had to find Crowley.

"Right through here," Leonard indicated, waving a long-nailed hand at a door hanging slightly askew in its frame. "Better let me go first, make sure it's safe."

"No, I think we should stick together-" Aziraphale began, but the demon was already gone. He leaned against the wall and then jumped back when part of it crumbled in his fingers. With a small cry of disgust, he brushed his hands on his pants, hoping that the stain would come out.

"Right, we're good." Leonard appeared, crouched low to the ground. "Just follow me."

The angel nodded and fell in step behind the former Master of Demonic Orgies (what exactly happened at these orgies was something about which it was probably better not to speculate). He took two steps through the door and had to stop suddenly as Leonard came to a halt and seemed to be addressing someone.

"As promised," he said. "One angel, delivered. Alive."

"Not for long," a voice muttered. It certainly wasn't Crowley's voice. Aziraphale made the mistake of looking up into a rotting face topped with a wild shock of hair and-was that a **frog **on his head?

"You've done well, Leonard," the demon continued.

"I would never fail you, Duke Hastur." Leonard bowed so low that his chin scraped the floor. "Shall we discuss my payment?"

"All in good time. Take him away," Hastur ordered two burly demons who seized Aziraphale by the arms and dragged him to what could only be a cell. As prisons went, it wasn't all **that **bad. Certainly the cell in Paris during the Revolution had been worse. This one didn't even have any rats.

Something moved, though, in a far corner. Aziraphale stood back, ready to defend himself.

"Come out where I can see you!" he called out.

There was a groan, and the sound of something fairly big dragging itself across the floor. Then a voice said, "Angel?"

"Crowley? Is that you?" He rushed forward and tried to help Crowley to his feet.

"Ow! Watch it! They roughed me up a bit before they threw me in here."

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Gently, he helped maneuver Crowley over to the cot against the far wall. The mattress was stained with unspeakable substances, but it was better than nothing. "How long have you been in here?"

"Oh, they caught me right away. Leonard fed me some line about a big meeting, something going down . . . I should have known. I should never have come."

"That little-" Aziraphale couldn't summon the required language to describe Leonard's treachery. "He told me he could sneak me in to find you!"

"Well, he did that, at least. You found me."

"Yes, but now we're both caught. Someone named Hastur seemed very pleased about it."

"Bastard," Crowley spat. It didn't make a dent in the layers of grime on the floor. "Probably gonna make us fight each other while everyone watches. Erm, you **did **have a plan to get us out of here, didn't you?"

"Not exactly," Aziraphale admitted. "I hadn't really gotten that far yet."

Crowley lay back and closed his eyes. "Terrific. We're gonna die, in the depths of Hell, at Christmastime. Like a bloody sacrifice. Remember when they used to do that?"

"What, sacrifice humans?" The angel looked shocked at the idea. "That's going back a bit, isn't it?"

"Before Christmas was about giving and being jolly, it was all about spilling oceans of red to bring back the green. And I'm not talking about money. They hadn't invented money yet."

"Oh. Those days. I wasn't too keen on them, myself."

Crowley sighed. "Doesn't matter now. We need a plan. A plan to get us out of here. If we could just get a guard to open the door . . ."

"Overpower him and make a run for it? You think that would work?"

"We'll need to get to the service door in the back. Not the one we came in; that one doesn't open from the inside. There's another that leads into a pub."

"That's the way we came in!" The angel beamed. "I think I can find the way . . . once we get out of here."

"Take a miracle for that to happen."

"Well, don't look at me. My powers don't seem to work down here. Unless . . ." An idea occurred to him. A crazy, impossible idea that would surely never work . . . but it was all they had.

"Hello!" he called out. "Excuse me! Anyone there?"

No one answered right away. Aziraphale had expected this. He kept shouting, reasoning that sooner or later someone would come to see what all the fuss was about.

Eventually, someone did.

"What'd I miss?" a massive guard demon demanded in a broadly Northern accent. "Did they start the torturing without me?"

"No, not yet," said Aziraphale, who was trying not to think about the implications of the word _torture_.

"What'd you want, then?"

"I was wondering," the angel continued in a subdued tone, but Crowley didn't miss the twinkle in his eyes. "Could I possibly have a glass of water?"

"What?" The guard stared at him. "You **do **know they're gonna kill you, right?"

"Yes, I'm . . . aware of that. It's just that I'm terribly thirsty, and I really don't want to die thirsty. Just a little water in a paper cup will be fine. You can stand right here and watch me drink it if you like. Please?"

"Weeeellllll . . ." the demon said, stretching the word out as long as possible. "Really not s'posed to, y'know."

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I promise. You have my word."

"Hunh. Fine. And you?" he demanded, turning on Crowley, who suddenly tried to sink into the dirty mattress. "You want an'thin'?"

"I'm good, thanks."

The portly demon guard left, and Crowley sat up and glared at Aziraphale. "What in the name of all that's unholy was **that **about?"

"You'll see."

"Is this part of your plan?"

"Of course," the angel said gleefully. Crowley didn't like the manic look in his eyes.

"I hope it works. Otherwise, we're doomed."

"It will. At least I think it will."

"You **think**?"

"I'm reasonably sure that it has a pretty good chance of succeeding."

"Great!" Crowley threw his hands into the air. "We're risking our lives on a 'pretty good chance'! Bloody lovely!"

"What I'm about to do," Aziraphale warned him, "I've never actually done in practice. But in theory it should work."

"Oh, in theory! It gets better! You're going to get us both killed, you know. Not just discorporated. Actually, completely, and permanently-"

"Ssh!"

The guard returned, alone, the requested cup of water held in one enormous hand. And then he did a strange thing. When he unlocked the door and stepped through, he left it a bit ajar. He probably wasn't supposed to do that. It would turn out to be the one mistake that changed everything.

Crowley's eyes were drawn to the portly demon's other hand, in which was held a massive studded mace. Crowley had seen these in action, mostly during one war or another during the Middle Ages[2]. He had no desire to be on the receiving end of the deadly weapon. Aziraphale's plan-whatever it was-**had** to work.

"Yer water," the guard said, holding out the cup.

Aziraphale took it with a rather strange smile on his face. "Thank you very much," he said, and lifted it to his lips. Just before the rim of the cup made contact, he muttered something that Crowley couldn't quite make out. He took a small sip . . .

And then threw the entire contents of the cup directly into the guard's face.

The reaction was instantaneous. The guard screamed, clutching his face, which appeared to be melting, as if the angel had thrown acid at him instead of plain water.

"First part of the plan achieved!" Aziraphale seemed pretty pleased with himself. "Let's go, Crowley."

He got up from the cot and followed Aziraphale out the open door, hurrying just in case the guard decided to heave the mace at them. "What the heaven was that?"

"Oh, I blessed it. The water. Turned it into instant holy water. I told you it would work."

"You just-said a few words over it and did **that**?"

"No, no, it's not the actual words that matter. It's the faith. I mean, I did actually say the blessing, but if you did it, for example, it wouldn't work."

Crowley was reeling from this revelation. "It's that easy? To just . . . make holy water?"

"What did you think holy water **is**? It's just ordinary tap water that's been blessed by the priests. Come on, it's this way."

"Wait a second. Do you think you can do that again?"

"Of course I can. Why?"

"There's a drinks machine back this way." He grinned, confident that they were going to come out of this all right after all. "Ammunition."

"Let's just make a run for it before they catch up!"

"I'll force the machine open and grab a few bottles. Does it work with cans of Coke, too?"

"Well, there is water in it . . . they have Coca-Cola in Hell?"

"Ever wonder what happened to all that New Coke, back when they changed the formula? It's all we get down here. Tastes like shit."

Aziraphale was about to chide Crowley for his language again, then remembered they were actually in Hell and it probably didn't matter. It was probably required to swear constantly in this place. "I'll try. Grab as much as you can. I'll wait here and keep an eye out."

"Don't do anything stupid. If they come for you, run."

"And leave you alone? Never! Go. Be quick. I'll be here."

He went to sit down on the floor, but when he saw how dirty it was, he decided to just sort of crouch above the actual floor. It was very hard on the knees, and the ankles as well, but hopefully Crowley wouldn't be gone long.

Curiously enough, the only thought running through his head was _I hope we haven't missed Christmas._

Crowley returned a few minutes later, dragging something behind him. "Found this," he explained. It was a gray plastic bin of the kind used for industrial storage. Aziraphale peered inside and found it full of bottles, some full of clear liquid, others containing a darker substance wrapped in bright red labels. "Grabbed as many as I could. There was Orange Burst as well, but I thought that might be pushing it. So . . . do you do 'em all at once, or one at a time?"

"I don't know, really. I'm not used to doing it at all. That was the first time, as I said. I suppose I could try saying the blessing over the whole bin and hope it takes."

"You'd better do it now." Crowley turned and looked back over his shoulder. "Cause here they come."

There was a roaring noise from down the corridor, in the direction that Crowley had come. A moment later, a virtual army of demons came rushing up, most brandishing some sort of weapon.

"Now is as good a time as any." Aziraphale leaned down and raised his hands over the bin. "_In nomine patria, et fille, et spiritu santu, amen_." He hoped it would be enough.

The holy water (and Cokes) didn't look any different than they had before. Only one way to find out. He reached in and grasped a bottle, grabbing a second and handing it to Crowley. They looked at each other for a second before turning and throwing the bottles at the same instant.

The drink missiles hit the front line of demons, exploding over them and causing screams and bubbling sounds.

"It works!" Crowley exclaimed. "Let's hope we have enough to hold them off till we reach the exit!"

"It's not that far, I think!" Aziraphale tossed another bottle over his shoulder. There was a fizz, and a scream.

"Just keep going, then!"

With every thrown bottle, the ranks of demons behind them grew thinner. It pained Aziraphale to hear the screams of the dying, even though they were demons. Even demons didn't deserve to die so horribly.

"Don't feel sorry for them!" Crowley told him. "They'd do it to us, given half the chance!"

At last they reached the black door that Aziraphale remembered from the start of this journey. Just in time, too: he was down to the last bottle. Well, he could drink it, once they were safely on the other side. Holy water wouldn't hurt **him**.

Suddenly something moved in the shadows and stepped out to block their path.

"Going somewhere, gents?"

It was Leonard.

"You little bastard!" Crowley spat at him. "Angel, give me the bottle."

"Oh, no, surely there's another way-"

"Nice trick," Leonard admitted. "Sneakin' holy water into Hell. How'd you manage that?"

"Come closer and I'll tell you," said Crowley.

"Oh, no. I ain't fallin' for that. You tell me from right here."

"Fine, if that's what you want. Aziraphale, the bottle!"

With a great sigh and a rolling of eyes, the angel handed over their last blessed bottle. Crowley gripped it tightly in one hand.

"You want to know the secret, Len?"

"Yeah."

"Right. The secret is . . ." He shook the bottle vigorously, until it foamed all the way to the top. Then with his other hand, he quickly unscrewed the cap. The resulting explosion of holy Coca-Cola sprayed Leonard in the face and reduced the former Master of Demonic Orgies to a shrieking, bubbling, mass of demonic protoplasm. Within a minute, he had dissolved completely.

"Angels make their own holy water," Crowley said with finality. He stepped over the stain on the floor that had once been Leonard, and opened the door. "While we're here, angel, let's go for a drink."

"I think I've had enough of drinks for one day," said Aziraphale. "Let's just go home."

* * *

[2] There were a lot of wars back then. He tended to lose track of who was fighting whom, and generally stabbed, slashed, or shot anyone who got in his way, regardless of which side they claimed to be on.

* * *

[1] Which technically hadn't actually been him; it had been Aziraphale pretending to be him.


	3. Part 3

It was Christmas Eve at last, a beautiful starry night like that first one over Bethlehem. Or so Aziraphale had heard. Unlike all the other angels, he hadn't actually been there; he'd been on a hillside in Lebanon, watching over the flock of a friend whose wife was having a baby.[1]

Currently he was in Crowley's Bentley, crawling through the streets of Tadfield looking for Hogback Lane.

"Are you sure it's down this way?" he asked Crowley. "I mean, we've never been to the actual house."

"We'd know for sure if you'd let me bring my phone," the demon grumbled.

"We're going to a party! I don't want you sitting in the corner playing games while everyone else is having a good time!"

"I don't play games on it!"

"Well, what do you do when you're fiddling with it?"

Crowley sighed through clenched teeth. "Different things. Now can you shut up? I'm trying to concentrate."

"We're lost, aren't we?"

"We are **not** lost! We're . . . close."

At that precise moment, they happened upon Mr. R. P. Tyler, who was out walking his dog. "Go on," said Aziraphale. "Ask him."

"What? I can't-"

Aziraphale reached over and rolled the window down. "Excuse me!" he called out.

Mr. Tyler stopped and narrowed his eyes at the car that was very slowly rolling along the road beside him. He did not recognize the Bentley, most likely because the last time he had seen it, it had been on fire.

"Are you lost?" he asked.

"Yes!" said Aziraphale.

"No!" insisted Crowley. "We're looking for Hogback Lane. How close are we?"

"Oh, you're nearly on it," said Mr. Tyler. "Just go past the meadow and turn right at the corner."

"Thank you very much," said Aziraphale, and put the window up again.

As they drove away, Mr. Tyler had a very peculiar feeling that he'd seen them before. At least, he'd seen the car before. But it had looked . . . different.

Ah, well. "Come on, Shutzi," he said, and led his dog back down the lane.

* * *

It was a very ordinary-looking house. You wouldn't have believed that the Antichrist lived there, if you hadn't known. Crowley drove past and parked in the first available spot further along the street. There were dozens of cars parked on both sides for quite a ways down.

"We're late," Aziraphale worried.

"Fashionably late. No one will mind. Get the presents from the back, will you, angel?"

Reluctantly, Aziraphale dragged out the red velvet sack which held the combined presents. "Oh, this is heavy! What in the world did you buy them? I'm assuming it's for the children."

"Not all of it! There's something for Anathema and Newt. By the way, don't mention this to anyone, but I hear there's going to be a special announcement tonight."

"You don't think-" Aziraphale stopped in the middle of the street and stared at his friend.

"All I know is, her parents flew in from America last night. What does that suggest to you?"

"Well, it's Christmas. People like to have family around at Christmas."

"I'm telling you, he's gonna do it. He's going to ask her. You wait and see if he doesn't. Can you get that, or do you need a hand?"

"I've got it," he said, though he wasn't entirely sure. The bag really was terribly heavy.

"Maybe we should have split it into two bags."

"No, it's fine!" Aziraphale said a little too sharply.

Crowley turned back and said, "You can't carry it, can you?"

"I can! It's just . . . it's like Gabriel said. I've gone soft."

"Don't listen to Gabriel. He's a bloody idiot. Let me get that." Crowley reached over and lifted up one side of the bag, and between them they carried it up to the Youngs' front door. When Crowley put down the bag to ring the bell, the door was flung open by an older woman with too much makeup.

"Merry Chri-who the hell are you?"

"Mum!" Mrs. Young appeared behind her. "They're . . . um . . . friends. Mr. Crowley, Mr. Fell, do come in. Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, dear!" Crowley kissed her on both cheeks. "Bring the gifts, angel."

"I thought you were going to help!"

"It's not far now! Just get them through the door and we'll put them under the tree."

"Fine," he sighed. "Lovely to see you again, Deirdre. Merry Christmas!"

* * *

It really was a lovely party. They drank Arthur Young's "special" peppermint cocoa, with just a hint of alcohol. (The kids got the alcohol-free version.) Aziraphale spent most of the evening sitting next to Deirdre's mother, whose name was Flora.

"So what is it," she asked, "you actually do, Mr. Fell?"

"Ezra," he said. "Please."

"All right, Ezra."

"I own a rare book shop in Soho. Been in the family ages."

"And what sort of books do you sell?"

"Usually first editions or limited-run copies. Hard to find editions, that sort of thing. Though I have branched out lately into a bit more popular stuff. Brings the customers in, you see."

"That sounds nice. And your, um . . . partner?"

"Crowley? Oh, he helps out in the shop sometimes, but he comes from money, so mostly he does his own thing."

"Really? And how did you two meet?"

"Oh, at school," he said.

"I'll bet you did very well there," she said. "Top of your class, am I right?"

"Not always," he admitted. "I wasn't very good at getting along with the other students. Crowley was pretty much my only friend."

"Oh, how sad." She slid over a few inches so that her right leg was pressed directly into his left. "Well, you've got me. I'm your friend."

"Yes, of course, um-"

"Excuse me!" Newt's voice rose over the Christmas music and the hum of conversation, "Can I have your attention, please?"

"Oh, thank goodness," Aziraphale muttered. "Will you excuse me for a moment, Flora? I think I need another drink."

"Of course, dear." She shifted her feet to the side so that he could get up. He went over to the bar even though he had no intention of getting himself another drink. Crowley was there.

"Here it comes," he said.

"Here **what **comes?"

"The big announcement. I hope he's already asked her. It could get awkward if he asks her right here in front of-"

"Yes, all right!" Aziraphale whispered fiercely. "Don't spoil it for the poor boy!"

"I'm not!"

"Ssh!"

Now that all eyes were on him, Newt seemed to flounder a bit. "Um, I'm not very good at this. I've never actually done it before-"

"Deep breath," said his mum. "Focus on what you want to say, and . . . just say it."

"All right." He took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then let it out in a contented sigh. "Earlier this evening, Anathema and I had a Serious Talk."

"That's asking for trouble, the Serious Talk," said Brian.

Pepper glared at him. "Shut **up**, Brian!"

"What? When my dad has a Serious Talk with me, it never goes well."

"Shush!"

Brian rolled his eyes and shushed begrudgingly.

"And even though we haven't known each other long," Newt continued as if the interruption hadn't happened, "we decided that we were soulmates, destined to spend the rest of our lives together. Because we want to, not because anyone predicted that we would. So I asked her," he said, pausing dramatically, "to marry me."

"And I said yes!" Anathema gushed.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale and smirked. "Told you."

"Yes, you did. Fine. You were right. Oh, yes, that's wonderful, dear," he said to the happy couple. "Let's see the ring!"

"It's not much," Newt admitted. "I still haven't found a job yet-"

Anathema held up her left hand. Encircling the third finger was a silver band with what looked like intricate engravings. "They're runes," she explained. "In ancient Sanskrit, it means 'Eternity.'"

"No, it doesn't," said Crowley. "That one line's out of place. It actually means-"

Aziraphale clapped a hand over the demon's mouth. "It's beautiful, dear. Congratulations to you both."

Someone was going around passing out glasses of champagne. Crowley took one, and Aziraphale gave him a look and snatched it from his hand, placing it back on the tray without spilling a drop.

"I think," he said, "that we've both had enough. It's a long drive home. Could we perhaps have a coffee instead?" he asked.

Thus, when the entire party toasted the engagement, the two celestial beings were the only adults in the room drinking something non-alcoholic.[2]

* * *

Eventually the party broke up, as parties do, when it gets late and people remember all the things they have to do in the morning.

Crowley and Aziraphale sobered themselves up as soon as they were out of sight. It was a long walk back to the Bentley, and it felt even longer in the dark and cold.

They set off, Christmas music[3] playing on the stereo, and it wasn't for quite some time that the angel noticed that they were not going back the way they had come. This wasn't the way to London at all.

"Um, Crowley?" Aziraphale said, looking out the window. "Where exactly are we going?"

"It's a surprise." The demon smirked and turned off onto a side road.

"I really do want to be getting home, I've got-"

"You'll like this."

And that was all that Crowley would say for about twenty miles. Aziraphale sat rigidly in his seat and winced at every bump in the road, which became rougher and rougher as they went on. Before long, it was a simple dirt lane.

"Exactly how **far **out of London are we going?" he inquired.

"Nearly there now."

"Nearly **where**?"

"You'll see."

A short while later, they turned off the road and came to a stop in front of a rambling white farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere. "Here we are, then," said Crowley. He waved his hand, and a light came on at the front of the house to guide them to the door.

"What's this?"

"This, my dear angel, is where we're spending Christmas. You and me. All alone, far from the city, no worries, nothing to do but sit and relax. No one will ever find us here."

"Won't the people who own this place be upset when they come home and find us here?"

Crowley produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. "I don't think so," he said, "seeing as I bought it myself yesterday."

"You . . ." Aziraphale gaped at him. "You bought it? Why?"

The demon flicked on the lights. The front door opened on a spacious living room with a huge fireplace at one end and a television almost as big at the other. "Someday," he said, "we'll want to move out of London. Get away from it all and go live in the country. There's a chicken coop out back-no chickens yet; I figured we'd save that for when we move in full-time. Then we can have fresh eggs every morning."

"That would be nice."

"Come upstairs. There's something I have to show you."

At the top of the stairs was a window and a comfortable seat beneath it, and perched on this seat was a large black stuffed dragon.

"I call him Norbert," said Crowley, giving the dragon's muzzle a pat. "After the dragon in the Harry Potter books. That's not what I want to show you, though. This way."

The first door led to a plain bedroom done up in shades of yellow and tan. "Yours, if you like."

"You know I don't really sleep."

"You don't have to. Use it as a place to park your stuff. Not that door, that one's mine. That one. Wait: close your eyes."

The angel did so and let Crowley lead him into the room. "Can I open them yet?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

The room was full of books. Wall to wall, floor to ceiling, books everywhere. There was a desk in one corner with a computer on it, one of those newfangled laptop models.

"I'll show you how to use it, if you like."

"Crowley, this . . . this is wonderful. Thank you. Thank you so much."

Crowley smiled wistfully. "Go get changed, and I'll go build a fire downstairs. We'll sit and open our presents."

"Now? Tonight?"

The demon made a big show of looking at his watch. "It's close enough. No one will care."

"But-I don't have a change of clothes!"

"Already taken care of. It's in your room, in the bag on the dresser. I'll meet you in front of the fireplace."

"You-you brought my things here?"

"Just a few of them. This place is ours to use whenever we want, so you can figure out what you want to keep here. I'd keep some clothes in the closet and your toiletries in your bathroom-each bedroom has its own _en suite_, by the way. Thought you'd appreciate that."

"I suppose. Though I don't . . . you know . . . go."

"You just see what's in there," the demon said with a grin.

Aziraphale went to the room that had been marked as his and found it just as Crowley had said. The bag on the dresser held his favorite pajamas, a change of clothes for tomorrow, as well as a few necessities. And, of course, his current book. He was reading Dickens now, in the spirit of the season, and his original copy of _Great Expectations__**[4]**_lay in the bottom of the bag, bookmark neatly in place where he had left it.

Truly, Crowley had thought of everything.

He changed into his nightclothes, topped with a thick cream-colored robe, and padded downstairs in tartan slippers to find Crowley, dressed similarly (but in black), sitting before a roaring fire. There was a pile of wrapped presents between the two chairs, and as Aziraphale drew closer, he saw that the top one had his name on it.

It was a flat rectangular package almost a foot across. There was only one thing it could be, he thought as he ripped it open.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

"Kindle?" he said, recognizing the Amazon logo.

"I know what you've always said, but think of it this way: this is, potentially, an entire library in one device. It holds thirty-two gigabytes of books, which is actually a lot. Plus-and this is the clever bit-it also has email, so you can manage your new online secondhand book business."

"What online business?"

"The one I just set up for you. There's a file in there labeled 'Sales;' all the information you need is there. Give you a break from the shop once in a while."

Aziraphale started to protest that he liked running the shop, and realized that he didn't, not so much. There was the occasional customer, like Anita, who made it worthwhile, but on the whole he'd be just as happy sitting and reading all day with no one to bother him.

"Plus, 'real' books aren't going away. This isn't meant to replace your collection. You're . . . branching out a bit. There's a gift card in there too, so you can browse through the online store and buy what you like."

"You'll have to show me how to use it." Aziraphale wasn't completely ignorant of technology; he just avoided it whenever possible. Lately, it was getting harder and harder to ignore. He may as well start somewhere.

"I will. My turn?"

The angel nodded. Crowley picked up a rather large rectangular package wrapped in red and gold. He tore the wrapping off and found . . .

"Sheets?"

"They're fleece," Aziraphale pointed out. "I saw them when I was looking for something else, and thought they would be perfect for you. They're supposed to be wonderfully warm and cozy. There weren't any in black; I'm afraid gray's the best I could do."

"No, no, that's fine." He unzipped the package and felt the material. "Ooh. I like this."

"Now, that's not an excuse to sleep all day! I want you to be comfortable, not lazy."

"I promise I'll leave the bed occasionally. Your turn. The little one there is yours."

"Oh. Yes." He noticed that the other two presents were both Crowley's. "I thought we were each doing three."

"We are."

"But I've only got two."

"Open that, and I'll explain."

He opened it. It was a very small box, and he couldn't think what could possibly fit in something so tiny. Jewelry? No, he didn't wear jewelry, apart from a watch he'd bought in 1922 and kept running (by way of miracles) ever since. The box was plain white, without a store name on it. He opened it and found a single key.

Crowley beamed. "Now you have one, and I have one. Do you get it now?"

It came to him then. "It's to the house, isn't it? The house is the third gift."

"Bingo!"

Crowley's other gifts were a pair of black flannel pajamas and a paperback thriller. It was a bit of an anticlimax after the big revelation. No one had ever given Aziraphale a house before.

"This is our place," said Crowley. "Yours and mine. And anyone else we choose to invite. But for now, I think we'll keep it our little secret."

He stood, stretched, and then gathered up his small pile of presents. "I'm going to bed. You coming?"

"I don't think I'm ready for that yet."

"I didn't mean-"

"It's all right. I'll just sit here for a while longer and read my book. Till the fire goes out, anyway. Good night."

"Night." Crowley went up the stairs, and there was the sound of a door slamming. Aziraphale settled back in his chair and opened _Great Expectations _to where he had left off. He was so absorbed in his reading that it was almost dawn before he noticed it was snowing.

* * *

"Crowley? Crowley, wake up!"

"Nnnnnhhhhh?" The demon rolled over and stared up at Aziraphale. "What?"

"You have to come see this!"

"Wha' time'zit?" He grabbed his watch off the bedside table and glanced at it. "Early."

"Come on!" Aziraphale all but dragged him out of bed and to the window. "Look! Look out there!"

"What?"

Aziraphale sighed and rolled up the window blind. Crowley narrowed his eyes and peered out at . . . nothing.

"What? There's nothing there. It's all . . . white . . ."

"Exactly! It snowed! It's still snowing, a bit."

"What are you, five years old? You want to go play in it?"

"No, I just think it's lovely. Don't you think so? Snow on Christmas! So much prettier out here than in the city. Thank you."

"For what?"

"Oh, well . . . I thought you did this."

"Made it snow? Do I look like a weather wizard?"

"A what?"

"Never mind. Yes, it's nice. What do we do now?"

"Well . . . I thought I'd make breakfast. You don't mind eggs, do you?"

"And coffee?"

The angel beamed. "We have half a jar of that fancy stuff you like. And then we'll watch Christmas movies all day long! And **you **made this all possible."

"I was just looking for a place to hide out. Hastur will be looking for us."

"I don't think he'll bother us, now that he knows we can make holy water bombs on demand. It really is a horrible way to go."

"Tell me something, angel. That thermos full of holy water you gave me . . . did you make that?"

"Oh, goodness, no!" Aziraphale ducked his head a bit. "To be honest, I wasn't sure I could. No, I appropriated that from Headquarters."

"You stole holy water from Heaven?"

"Well, no, it's there for everyone to use-"

"But if you'd told them who it was for, they wouldn't have let you have it, would they?"

"That's why I didn't tell anyone."

Crowley smiled. "And that's," he said, "why I like you. Merry Christmas, angel."

"Merry Christmas, Crowley."

* * *

[1] A very non-Messianic baby.

[2] The children, of course, had sparkling apple juice.

[3] Which all sounded like Queen.

[4] _A Christmas Carol _was so overdone.


End file.
